Ode to Lata by Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla

open his arms open and shrieks, “My sister!  Oh, my sister in crime!  I’ve missed you!”
    The porno star rolls his eyes at us and slips past.
    Air kisses and hugs. We tell each other how fabulous we both look.  We’re young.  We’re negative – or at least uninformed otherwise. And the direct deposit has replenished our bank account hours before.  What more can you ask for?
    “And how’s the love life?” he says, winking and slapping my butt.
    I shrug. “Alright.”
    “Hmm,” he says, shaking his head.  “I know that look.  Men!  They’re all pigs,” he says, throwing disapproving glances at the men around us and conveniently disregarding our own gender.  “Gay or straight, it doesn’t matter, they all still think with their dicks!”
    “You know it.”
    “We should’ve been born lesbians, no?  Gir-r-r-l, we’d be harvesting eggs by now.”
    Laughing, I offer him some of my Stoli, and he confesses between sips that he is going to get some China.
    “China?” I ask.
    “Blow,” he says, nudging me.
    Jesus!  Whoever did coke anymore?  So eighties!
    “Well, wait for me,” I say, breezing past the ridiculously long line of men too shy to use the urinal.  Meanwhile Roy blots his face in the mirror with the special absorbent paper he carries in his wallet.
    Stationed before the urinal, I force myself to release.  My eyes fix upon the flier for an Asian dance club taped against the wall.  I try to concentrate on it to ward off the stares of the men standing behind.  It’s like they’re all waiting to witness my failure at this most human of tasks, one they have such a problem performing. I think there must always be a certain humiliation served to the tormented butch men waiting for the stall when a femme glides past them with confidence and pisses away with superior glee…
I’ll show you who’s “on top!”
    I try to ignore the man standing next to me who, not subtle enough to use his peripheral vision, is staring directly at my cock.  I’m frozen.  Glaring at him, I hiss, “Do you mind!” and as if electrocuted, his head jerks up and he looks away.
    “Huh!  Not much to look at anyway,” he mutters.
    Club Asia… waterfalls… psss… psss… They are all trash… Goddamn trash with their big bulky bodies… Show them who the real man is… Go ahead and piss… Piss… Piss… For Asians and their lovers… Piss… Piss… Aaaah!
    Zipped up, I follow Roy to the bar and watch him sashay his way through the clamor perched around it.  That’s club expertise right there.  Knowing how to steer through the crowds at the bar and get that cocktail.  Men everywhere with water bottles tucked into their jeans are running back and forth from the bathroom, refilling them – on Ecstasy and in need of more water than an evening’s allowance can support.  These days the E-boys are the only ones who look blissfully happy.  I can see Adrian talking to Noah in the same spot but Kitty has vanished, and I hope they don’t come looking for me.
    Roy leans forward at the bar and is quickly noticed by the bartender, a muscular, shirtless Tom Cruise look-alike. We have all lusted after him at one point or another.  So typical, this lusting after bartenders in a gay club, as if they have been handpicked precisely to set off a hormonal bomb in our bodies and make us drink more out of frustration.  An average looking bartender working alongside him graces me with his attention. 
Oh well, saved me an extra dollar on the tip.
    “Vodka,” I say quickly, before anyone notices I haven’t waited as long as the others.
    “And what do want with your Vodka?”
    “Rocks.”
    I pay for my drink, tempted to leave the quarters on the bar, then leave the dollar instead.  The quarters will come in handy for laundry.
    Roy returns to me with a fruity, grenadine-infected cocktail in his hand and takes the time to visually undress the men around him as he slinks over.  “I have it!” he